Filthy Hot Mess
by Toringtino
Summary: Everybody has problems; deep, dark wounds they cover up with colourful masks and shoddy disguises. Ichigo is no different. But all it will take is one man, just one, to pull at the frays and give him a taste of something he'll never forget. Nympho!Ichi


**A/N: An author's note at the beginning? Le gasp! But it had ta be done, an' the reason is to introduce mah partner in crime fer this particular fic, the wonderfully amusing _vivaciousRingo_. She decided to attack me with the ever dreaded 'plot bunnies', an' this is the result of our labours. An' so, before we begin, she would like ta say a lil' somethin' as she finally breaches into the world of Bleach fanfiction. Take it away, Apps~...**

**_vivaciousRingo_:**** Yo, Apple here~ I'm to be blamed for distracting our _awesome_ Tori and polluting her mind with naughty thoughts about nymphomaniac!Ichigo and here we have a new fic, lol! But—_blame often lies in-between_*pumps fist in the air* and it was her line in too-hot-for-words "Red Dead Bleach" that threw my imagination over the loop and I just _had _to pay her back, y'know~? **

**So as ya can guess this fic will revolve around Ichigo and his libido!… *blinks* well~ maybe few more things, k'? Like we'll throw into the pot all kinds of delicious stuff—sweaty hot bodies, few plot bunnies, a bit of spice an' sexual tension, few hallucinogenic mushrooms, etc etc—next we'll let it boil _oh so very slowly~_ to pull out each an' every mouth-watering flavor and smell, giving you a taste of something you've rarely had a pleasure to _savor_~ *giggles maniacally* **

**Ehem *comes back ta Earth* even so it was my doll Shirotori who did all the work and written it down so damn beautifully, I took the shotgun and enjoyed the ride with all I got, heh. So bow down before the Master's greatness, all you—*mikes gets cut off and ticked off Tori continues after kicking Apple off of the stage tsk'ing while saying sth about talking too damn long***

**_Toringtino_: Ahem, so yosh... Without further adieu, we present "Filthy Hot Mess". *binds and gags Apple* Shh, mah sweet, I'll let yah loose as soon as I find tha sedatives...Mm'kay?**

**Disclaimer: Neither Apple nor myself own Bleach, or any of its characters. If we did, well...it would surely be very, _very_ different. Ey, Apps~? *cheeky wink***

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><p>Chapter One<p>

_'The Dark of the Night'_

Ever get the feeling that life isn't all it's cracked up to be? That there's more to it than meets the eye? Twenty-one year old college student, Ichigo Kurosaki, had always believed this to be the case. With one soul-crushing catastrophe after the other during the course of his life, he _had_ to believe that there was something better out there. It was either that, or risk going batshit fucking insane.

Sitting up in a bed he was all too familiar with the feel and sight of, the black silk sheets slipped down his bare chest to pool around his equally naked lap. Moonlight seeped in through the small partition in the blackout curtains, bathing toned, peachy skin in a long line down the right hand side of his body. A slight grumble was heard when a short gust of wind billowed the curtains out and the moon snaked her silver fingers over a young face, highlighting beautifully expressive, honey-ochre eyes set in features that should have been fresh and teeming with life, but were instead cut into hard lines and a permanent scowl, the kind that one experiences when having to grow up too fast.

Scratching a hand through bright, tangerine spikes, Ichigo reached for the bedside table, procuring a half empty pack of Marlboro reds. Tapping one of the cigarettes out, he placed it between petal soft, rose pink lips and lit up, the orange glow from the lighter dancing briefly across his face before darkness blanketed it once more.

Taking a long, greedy inhale, Ichigo released the toxic mix of nicotine and carbon monoxide in a silent sigh. He could remember a time when even the thought of smoking was enough to turn his stomach, when he'd berated friends and family alike for taking up the filthy habit and subjecting innocent bystanders, such as himself, to the poisonous chemicals their life threatening habit produced. He'd thought it an extremely stupid and somewhat selfish activity to partake in, and vowed that he'd never be tempted to join the idiots who, to him, seemed hell-bent on destroying their lives.

So what happened, you ask? Well, a hell of a lot to be honest. To Ichigo, his life had become like a game of Jenga. Bits and pieces were being tore away from him, causing his beliefs and values, his very _morals_, to weaken and buckle from under him until they struggled to stand on their own. It was only a matter of time before it all came crashing down around his ears – and when it actually _did_, Ichigo had embraced it, welcoming it into his heart like a mother would her newborn babe. He'd had enough. Enough of people telling him what to do, of how he should conform so that society would accept him, of others pushing him around because he was gifted with more than one fucking functioning brain cell.

And all it took was one man, just one, to remove that final block, to tip everything over the edge so that the structure he'd spent his entire life building from the ground up quaked and crumbled, shattering into a mess of broken dreams and unfulfilled promises. And Ichigo couldn't have been more grateful.

A soft groan and the discreet rustle of bed sheets was all the warning the orange haired male received before two wiry, muscular arms draped over his shoulders from behind, a chin coming to rest on his right shoulder as the arms hugged him into a sleep-warmed chest.

"Maa. What'cha doin' up, Ichi?" a hauntingly beautiful, echoic voice husked by his ear. "Cannae sleep?"

Ichigo didn't protest as the cigarette was plucked from his mouth by black tipped, alabaster fingers. "No. Too much on my mind, I guess."

A hum of acknowledgment was given by the other, followed by an exhale of smoke carried on a hot breath that licked over Ichigo's neck and made him shiver. Tilting his head, Ichigo peered at the other through the navy darkness of the night, a small smile curling his lips at the familiar face that greeted him.

There's a lot Ichigo could tell you about the man hugging intimately around his back. For instance, he was the same age as himself, though was still two months his junior. In spite of this, he was about an inch taller, standing at 5'11" to his 5'10". He had a lean build and trim figure, sharp cut hipbones that jut out just the right amount to make any fingers itch to trace them, and snowy tresses that sat in dishevelled spikes and glowed with a silver tint in the moonlight. At one point, their hair used to be scarily similar in fashion, until the other decided to grow his out a bit, the silvery strands now falling around strong shoulders and his bangs long enough to obscure eerily hypnotic gold-on-obsidian eyes. His skin was a smooth, milky white, marred only across his back where an intricate, bold black tattoo sat. It always reminded Ichigo of barbed vines, which slithered down his spine and up the back of his neck, branching out over the width of his shoulder blades and ending hugged around his left shoulder, just barely caressing his left pectoral. He'd told Ichigo once that it was based off of one from one of his favourite movies, though Ichigo had never seen it.

But for every one thing Ichigo could say about the other, there were about ten things he couldn't. For example, he knew the young male's name was Shirosaki, but that was it. No indication of a surname, or even whether Shirosaki _was_ his surname. Ichigo never pressed the matter though. He felt privileged enough to know that much, when almost everyone else in the circuit knew the alabaster man simply as 'Cero'. He didn't know where Shirosaki came from, if he had a family, an education, a job, hopes, dreams… Shit, he didn't even know if he was a cat or dog person.

In all honesty though, none of that mattered. Ichigo sought out Shirosaki for one reason, and one reason only; and that was to have a good time. Whether it was chilling out with a few beers, a shitty movie and a toke to make said movie at least worth laughing at, or getting smashed off their faces in an underground rave and screwing each other senseless against the nearest available surface that could accommodate their combined weight, it always ended in the same conclusion; two exceedingly happy, sated men, and with no unwarranted strings tying them to a whole mess of complicated emotions that both could do without.

It was seedy, and so carnally base…but it was so wonderfully perfect in its simplicity.

"I'm surprised you're up and functioning, though," Ichigo said at long last, pinching the rapidly depleting cancer stick back. A left brow riddled with two silver bars cocked up in question, to which Ichigo smirked. "C'mon, Shi. You can't deny I nailed ya pretty fucking hard not even an hour ago. Usually you're comatose after such a brutal throw down."

Shirosaki cackled at that, nipping down on the piercing free shell of the orange haired male's ear. "See now, tha', ta me, sounds like yer obviously gettin' sloppy, ne aibou? Maybe yer losin' yer touch…" His lips brushed teasingly over the peachy column of Ichigo's neck, black varnished fingernails raking lightly over defined pectorals. "Wan' me ta show yah how it's done?"

Ichigo scoffed and stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray beside the smokes, before abruptly twisting and pinning the alabaster man to the mattress. The sly smirk curling pale lips, and excited golden orbs practically glittering with mirth staring back up at him, told Ichigo that Shirosaki had been expecting such a reaction. He gave a mental eye roll. Shirosaki was a mastermind when it came to manipulating others, he instinctively knew every button to push, and which combination would get which reaction. Ichigo didn't know whether to consider such a 'talent' a gift…or a bloody curse.

"Little boys should know their place and just do as they're told," Ichigo half growled, half purred, pressing a hot, open mouthed kiss to a milky throat as lean arms tangled themselves around his neck.

"Mmm, I like it when yah talk dirty…_King_."

Ichigo felt himself shudder at the unique nickname hummed so deliciously in his ear, biting down on the other's pulse point in reward as he smirked against sweet, musky skin. "That so? Hn. Then you're gonna love what's coming next…"

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><p><em><strong>Roughly <strong>__**six hours ago**_

Every single day was the same. The same alarm waking him up, and the only thing alerting him to the fact that it was indeed the beginning of a new day. The same toaster that crisped his meagre breakfast every morning. The same silver, 2005 Honda Civic that rumbled to life to take him to college – Karakura University – in time for his first class. The same faces within the same four walls of the lecture theatre he found himself in four days a week. The same rotund, balding professor harping on about a subject he'd long since lost interest in. The same group of asshole jocks who thought they were hot shit and constantly picked on anyone who dared to break out of the mould. This of course included Ichigo, who they were convinced bleached his hair just to get some attention. Yeah, because dying your hair luminous, traffic cone orange is the best way to go about something like that. Fucking lamewads.

It was all the same, same, _fucking same_.

He'd really hoped that once he graduated high school, that all that bullshit would be left behind in the dust along with the memories of his time spent in that hellhole. You know the stuff; the cliques of students who had categorised tables of increasing popularity in the cafeteria, the bullies picking on nerds because of underlying psychological problems they have with much needed, starved approval from daddy, the bitchy sluts who crooned all over the captain of the football team, just begging to have their 'cherry popped' because their uncle used to touch them up when they were too young to understand what was going on. Yeah, _that_ stuff.

In a way, he himself wasn't much different. He was like every other miserable sod in the place, a problem child just coasting along with the flow and hoping to get something worth while at the end of it all. Because, well, everyone had a story, didn't they? A deep, aching wound that bled internally until it slowly consumed everything that was and moulded one into the kind of person they would be for the rest of their lives. Right? Everyone needed that, something to blame all their mistakes and shortcomings on – and Ichigo was no different.

Ichigo's story was that his mother had died in a random mugging when he was just six years old. Now, most people would argue that witnessing a parent's death was just the kind of soul-destroying scenario that gave viable justification to going a little off the walls. The victim of such an atrocity could turn into a real _wanker_, always acting and lashing out at those around them, those who were only trying to help, and they'd get away with it too. People would be sympathetic to their plight, would say things like, "Oh, he's such a brave boy" and "He just needs an outlet after such a traumatic event. Poor little guy…"

Only Ichigo didn't take that approach. Instead, he took what infinitesimal glimmer of hope he could from his mother's passing, remembered the words she'd uttered so lovingly many a time to him; he would work hard, and he would make her proud of him, just like she'd always believed he would. He would set an example for his younger sisters, give them someone to look up to, someone they could admire and come to with each and every problem they faced in their life. He would study day and night, get himself into college, and then one day take over his father's clinic. He would make them all proud.

His mother's death saw the first block snatched away, but it was nothing he couldn't handle.

Looking back on it now, Ichigo honestly couldn't say if he'd made the right decision or not. Sometimes he thinks that being psychotic may have been easier, may have toughened him up against what was lying in wait just around the corner. Maybe it would have made his one true temptation less of that which would slowly corrode his soul. But oh well, there wasn't much point on tearing his hair out over something he couldn't ever hope to change, not with all the money, power and influence in the world. One way or the other, he'd made his decision, and he'd live with the consequences he reaped.

All through high school it was the same old routine…

"Kurosaki-san, could I please see your notes on yesterday's algebra equations? I just can't wrap my brain around them."

"Yo, Berry-head. Lemme cheat off your test in chemistry or I'll beat your ass again."

"Will you be my lab partner, Kurosaki-kun? I never get the chemicals right and don't want to singe my eyebrows before the winter dance."

"Oi, queer. Hand over yer lunch money before I kick yer faggoty hide into next week."

…same old shit, different day. He kept to himself, drowned himself in pages of textbooks rather than going to pep rallies and the hottest party of the current week. He never kicked up a fuss when he was challenged, never fought back. He honestly didn't see the point. The more he fought against the flow, the faster he'd find himself being pulled under and overwhelmed, and that just didn't cut it for him. He had a goal in life, and no one would deter him from it. He was nothing if not determined.

And then block number two was suddenly wrenched away when his father died. A freak plane crash on his way to a medical conference in the States.

He was just fifteen.

He'd be lying if he said that didn't throw him for a loop, and he felt that perfect mask of honest work and calm disposition crack, saw the pieces splinter and flitter before his eyes. But he repaired it. It was hasty, and a botch job at best, but it was enough. After all, there was still his little sisters; spirited Karin and delicate Yuzu. If he had no parents, then they would become the centre of his universe, the one thing he would hold above the rest and protect from the evils of the world with every ounce of strength he possessed. They would be his everything.

They moved in with their uncle, one surfer reject, bucket hat enthusiast by the name of Kisuke Urahara and his wife Yoruichi Shihōin, an olive-skinned, purple haired woman of cat like finesse and inhuman beauty that Ichigo always thought was well above and beyond the reach of their nutty, clog wearing uncle. Apparently they were old childhood friends that just grew closer and closer together, until both decided that the next logical step was to become lovers. Marriage was the eventual end-product of that union. And now, through Yoruichi's love of bikes, and Urahara's lust for all things scientifically mechanical, they owned a small garage together, quaintly named 'Urahara&Shihōin Garage'. Oh yes, very original.

For all their faults – including Kisuke's love for patronising Ichigo at every turn, goading him into fights only to result in rampant chases around their small abode with various sharp objects, and Yoruichi's morbid fascination with making Ichigo blush every fucking shade of red under the sun with sultry comments and scant clothing – he really couldn't ask for anyone better suited to fill the role of their absent parents. They were good with Karin and Yuzu. Yoruichi would play soccer with Karin, the more tomboyish of the fraternal twins, every Saturday afternoon down at the local park, and complimented the talented Yuzu profusely on her exquisite culinary skills. Kisuke would then teach them everything they needed to broaden their minds that school just didn't have the time nor the resources to do, such as new languages, self-defence, customs in different cultures, and even how to change a flat tire.

Ichigo on the other hand, he was an entirely different case. When that chipped mask started showing its cracks in school through lunch time beat downs and after school detentions, Kisuke simply honed the natural fighting skills he already possessed, teaching him how to tune into his inner demons in order to release them in a safe and controlled manner. He gave him projects in the garage, taught him the trade so that he could take out his repressed emotions out on a car engine instead of the nearest asshole's face. Yoruichi would guide him through puberty, giving him the lowdown on the 'do's and don'ts' of dating, including an ear burning recount of each and every erogenous zone on the female body so kindly pointed out on her very own figure. Needless to say, as soon as she hiked up the hem of her skirt that day, Ichigo bolted for the nearest exit.

Ichigo had to give the pair their dues, for they tried. They really, really did. But they were too little too late. The damage had already been done. The internal bleeding of his metaphorical wounds were beyond critical, the dark venom already spider-webbing throughout his system. The blocks were too unstable to ever put right without risking irreparable damage. But nobody had expected the tower to come crashing down quite as hard as it did. Nobody even saw it coming.

Ichigo was seventeen when it happened, when he met _him_, and his whole world was knocked for fucking six.

First impressions account for a lot in society, and nowhere is that more true than it is in high school, where everyone is out to get everyone else just so that can make it to the top rung of the ladder, where the children are cruel and rebellious and plain don't give a shit for others opinions or feelings. And yet when _he_ first darkened the doorway to their classroom on that hot, stuffy day in mid March, the first and only impression Ichigo got, no, _felt_, rolling off of that body sculpted from a slab of cold, hard sin…was _danger_. Everything about the teen screamed it. From the mess of electric teal hair atop his head, to the full fucking sleeve tattoo covering his right arm shamelessly out on display from his rolled up sleeves, all the way down the hard cut planes of burly muscle no teen should possess, to the non-regulation biker boots on his feet. Everybody was gawking and drooling over the new student as he was forced to introduce himself – and Ichigo was no exception. Sexual orientation be fucking damned. There wasn't a single motherfucker in _existence_ that wouldn't a piece of that man in some way, shape or form. Not exaggeration, simply fact.

Grimmjow Jaegerjaques. That was his name. Fuck, even that sounded dangerous.

Sharp, aquamarine eyes that could ensnare and penetrate too goddamn easily sat amidst rugged, yet no less handsome features. Both ears were pierced with flesh tunnels large enough to fit a cigarette through them, as was often displayed, and it was on pretty good authority from day one that the exotic new teen knew how to kill a guy using just his thumb. And then there was his voice, that deep, masculine rumble that had all girls within a five mile radius instantaneously spreading their legs and even the straightest of guys seriously reconsidering their commitment to pussy.

Ichigo had always found himself smack dab in the middle, where he could certainly appreciate long legs, curvy hips and a voluptuous chest, but where he wasn't limited to such a thing. He also valued a strong set of arms, tight ass and square jaw. Not that he'd gotten far with either sex, or cared that he was still a virgin at seventeen. They were all just details and had nothing to do with his game plan, so, as far as he was concerned, the entire population of Karakura High could go and fuck themselves.

And then Grimmjow unexpectedly started to pay attention to him, by which Ichigo meant 'pester the life out of'. It all started with a fight the blue haired student had witnessed between Ichigo and a regular pain in the ass he won't even grace with a name. Grimmjow hadn't interfered in the scuffle, something that didn't surprise Ichigo in the slightest. The only thing that _did_ surprise him was that he hadn't joined in. Call it prejudice, or even labelling to the highest degree, but Grimmjow just struck him as the kind of general delinquent the likes of which got off on punching and kicking until skin split on skin and blood poured liberally from the wounds.

He would later find out that he was very much correct in that assumption.

Grimmjow began his daily harassment not long after that day, wanting–nay, _demanding_, to know why Ichigo didn't fight back. When the orange haired teen tried to tell him that he _had_, Grimmjow had scoffed, smacked him round the back of the head a called him a "filthy fuckin' liar." He claimed that he knew Ichigo had more to give, could see it in his eyes, knew that as soon as he dropped whatever defences he'd constructed up around himself in a piss poor attempt to shield himself from the real world, that he'd be a fucking whirlwind of chaos. Grimmjow so desperately wanted to see it, to witness him losing control. He said he wanted to be on the receiving end of that fury, that he would give it back as good as he got it and that at the end of the day it would feel like the best fucking orgasm they would ever experience.

Ichigo couldn't deny that he was tempted to finally just let go. By simply coasting through life, blatantly ignoring the pain and the hardships, he'd repressed more than enough frustration to take down a stampeding rhino. He'd always thought his will to be unshakeable, and yet all it took was that one teeny glimpse of appeal, of true _excitement_, to break him so completely.

Grimmjow had watched in morbid fascination as he slowly but surely wore Ichigo down, stalking him like the feral predator he was, just waiting for the ideal opportunity to strike. He witnessed the boy's pretences decaying, and wasted no time in sinking his talons into the latest fracture splitting Ichigo's perfectly placed mask, shaking the very foundations his quivering tower sat upon.

He pulled, and pushed, and then pulled some more – and the inevitable _finally_ happened.

Ichigo. Fucking. _Snapped_.

Their fight would go down in school history, would be told for generations to come. Teens would gather in the yard and tell the tale of the two males with brightly coloured hair who beat each other into oblivion. They would stand in the grassy lawn where it was instigated after school hours, before venturing out to the car park where it came to its final, bloodstained conclusion, pointing out the coppery stains of dried blood that just wouldn't wash out of the asphalt.

What they wouldn't talk about however, because no one knew of it, was the unexpected turn the epic duel had birthed, where burning hatred and bittersweet redemption merged and fused, twisting and distorting itself into the barely recognisable feelings of unbridled lust and dark temptations. Powerful right hooks and gut splitting kicks turned into hands fisting into luminous hair and searching fingertips diving under too tight school slacks as tongues drew out hungry kisses and teeth burst blood vessels to lay claim on the other's body.

Ichigo might have been ashamed to admit that he handed over dominance too quickly, or that he begged the older teen for harder and faster through a series of wanton moans and ecstasy laced screams. But the whole experience – which ended up happening in the backseat of a car Ichigo came to learn was boosted by the blue haired demon the day previous – was so incredibly liberating, not to mention insanely mind-blowing, that he just couldn't bring himself to care that he'd effectively gone and played 'submissive' to another man. Grimmjow wasn't gentle, not in the slightest, and Ichigo just encouraged him for more and more of the bestial torture that seared his skin and made his toes curl.

If given the choice, he wouldn't change a damned thing about the exchange.

Whilst walking to school come Monday morning, his right eye still slightly swollen and his top lip sporting an impressive tear, Ichigo can remember feeling horribly conflicted. Did what happened on Friday change anything between them? He really didn't think he should read anything into it. After all, they were just two teenage boys getting rid of all their excess testosterone and raging hormones in one fell swoop, right? Nothing to get excited about…

Only Ichigo was excited, very much so. For so long he'd bottled away his emotions, all the rage and fear and emptiness he felt every fucking day of his life, and finally, _finally_, someone had found the tap within himself to let it all gush out like a faucet that had ruptured from the overwhelming pressure. This man, Grimmjow Jaegerjaques, he'd stoked something that had lain dormant in the pit of Ichigo's soul for so many years into an all-out, blazing inferno that was slowly consuming everything he'd ever known, leaving in its wake a steadily rising thirst for the kind of life that he dared only breach in his dreams. Grimmjow had unwittingly given him a small taste of freedom from the confinements that had held him prisoner for much too long, an insatiable hunger for the kind of sin and corruption he'd only ever read about before. And Ichigo wanted it all, wanted Grimmjow to lead him deeper into the all-consuming darkness so that – _just for once_ – he could forget everything he used to be.

But, just like every other aspect in his life to date, it all went to shit. He'd arrived in school not only to find out that he wouldn't get to delve into that world with Grimmjow, but that he probably wouldn't ever see said blue haired teen again. He was gone. The teachers said he'd been transferred yet again because he "wasn't fitting in", but Ichigo didn't buy into that bullshit for a damn second. Knowing Grimmjow, he was probably lying dead in a gutter somewhere after trying to jack the wrong guy's car, or facing a lengthy stint in prison for pedalling class A narcotics to small children. Far fetched? Perhaps. But viable? You'd better believe it.

Ichigo soon learned to live without the blue haired, antisocial, felonious delinquent, though he found himself thinking of him often. Every time he saw that obnoxious blue coloured candyfloss at fairs, or gazed up at a cloudless, early summer sky, it was like he could see that shit-eating smirk that was full of dark promises and sinister intent. Okay, so the two of them never really got to know one another; Ichigo never did find out where Grimmjow learned that underhanded, street-fighting style of combat he'd displayed, where he'd originated from in order to land such an glamorous name, or even why he had a gothic '6' tattooed on his back. But that didn't make him any less important to him. Grimmjow would forever be the key to Ichigo's unravelling, and he would never forget that.

But the one thing that Ichigo simply _couldn't_ live without, not anymore, was the thrill of existence on the underbelly. And so, Ichigo's double life was born. By day, he was a hard working pre-med student who wore glasses when his eyes got tired, got better than average grades and kept mostly to himself. A well-enough mannered young man who helped his little sisters with their homework, worked on cars in his uncle's garage just to make a buck, and avoided any lengthy sort of interaction with his 'lets-humiliate-Ichigo-with-tips-on-her-top-ten-tried-and-tested-positions' aunt. Then, when the dark of the night comes around on a Friday night, the mask comes off as he goes in search of filling the hollow void a certain teal haired Adonis left punched through his gut. Ichigo 'bookworm' Kurosaki gets left behind at the door alongside the heavy baggage of his morals and code of ethics.

And, as luck would have it, it was Friday night tonight.

It was just past eight o'clock in the evening when Ichigo stepped out into the house garage, his ochre eyes scanning over the beige tarp concealing his most prized possession. Gingerly grabbing the corner, he could feel his heart thrumming eagerly as he peeled it back, revealing inch by inch the sleek black bodywork of his fully restored, 1978 Pontiac Firebird Trans-Am. No matter how many times he saw the five litre metallic beast, with its V8 engine and the iconic golden firebird painted across the bonnet, it still made his breathing hitch. The cars restoration had been given as a project to Ichigo by his uncle when he turned eighteen, who'd said that when the car was brought in as a heap of scrap metal destined for the junkyard, he knew that one day someone would come along and patch her up, give her the time of day and the TLC needed to turn her back into a purring machine of raw power and panty-dropping sex appeal. It was easily one of Ichigo's greatest achievements to date. He loved everything about that car; the satisfaction of watching weary, grease stained hours slowly develop into new life, the feeling of it growling under his fingertips when he got behind the wheel, the emotional trauma it got him through when he had no other venue in which to vent, and the somewhat symbolic value it offered his alternate persona. It wasn't just a project, it was his baby.

Unlocking the door, Ichigo was just about to slide into the driver's seat when the door connecting the garage to the house suddenly opened behind him, spilling a bright yellow light over his form so that he had to squint when turning to the culprit.

Kisuke stood there, his arms crossed lazily across his chest as he rested a hip against the doorjamb. "Heading out, Ichigo?"

"Well, I wasn't going to just sit in the car and stare at the wall all night," was the sarky response, Ichigo fiddling impatiently with the keys as he surveyed his seemingly impassive uncle.

"That certainly wouldn't make any sense, I suppose," Kisuke agreed with a slight nod, his steel grey eyes teasing yet no less hard in parental censure for the fact.

He looked over his strong spirited charge, noting the ripped, dark denim Diesel jeans, black Relentless Suzuki hoody and black and white Timberland boots. He knew exactly where Ichigo was headed and, more importantly, _what_ he was heading into. But, just like every other night, the older man simply bit his tongue against the tirade of warnings and lectures he knew he probably should be dishing out. He had to remember that Ichigo was a man now, one who was more than perfectly capable of making his own mistakes – and hopefully of gaining valuable lessons from them. The orange haired male, in spite of outward appearances, was oh so very fragile, and needed space in which to just blow off steam, to _grow_. Kisuke could at least give him that much.

"Will you be home?" he asked, folding his arms into the baggy sleeves of his green overcoat.

Ichigo sucked on his teeth, averting his gaze back to the Firebird. "No."

Kisuke inclined his head, expecting as much. "Very well. I'll inform your sisters of the usual. We'll call if we should need you."

"Okay…and, thanks."

Kisuke grinned, throwing a nonchalant wave over his shoulder as he turned on his heel to head back indoors. "Take care of yourself, Ichigo."

Ichigo felt a warm smile tilt his lips as he finally got himself seated in the car. He had no doubt that his uncle knew all about what he got up to when he ventured out at night, Urahara was weird like that. But at least he just left him to it. There was no slapping a curfew on him, or calling the police when he didn't come home, for which Ichigo was very grateful. His uncle gave him room to breathe when he felt like the world was suffocating him, and honestly, how many parents and/or guardians could say they did the same for their child? Ichigo was willing to bet that the percentage was dismally low.

Sticking the key in the ignition, Ichigo could barely contain the toxic sense of anticipation that racked his body when the finely tuned V8 engine roared to life, vibrating underneath him like a ravenous beast ready for the prowl.

Heh. That would make two of them, then.

* * *

><p>By 9:38PM, Ichigo had finally reached his destination; a dark and sordid little town on the far eastern outskirts of Karakura, known simply as Las Noches. Pulling into a large parking lot in an old warehouse district the orange haired male frequented more often than not, Ichigo gave a low whistle at the impressive turnout. There were men of all shapes and sizes, baring an assortment of gang tattoos gathered in small groups in front various souped up – and highly <em>illegal<em> – motors, provocatively dressed fangirls sporting the colours of their favourite street racers with hair ribbons, neon bracelets and body paint, and all the space in between was filled with avid, drunken spectators.

Ichigo couldn't help but smirk as he cruised through the milling crowds and recognition began flaring across the diverse faces, some he recognised and others not so much. The men wolf-whistled and cheered, whilst the girls gave sultry smiles and vixenish waves. One particularly voluptuous specimen, wearing a boner-inducing white miniskirt and low-cut crop top, went as far as to press her ample cleavage against his door's window, giving him a rather clear view of smooth mocha skin and his signature skull engulfed in flames insignia painted in the centre of her chest. He wasn't quite sure which of the two was making him grin more.

A flash of white caught in his peripheral, and, quickly recognising the vehicle as the 2002 Mitsubishi Lancer Evo he was subconsciously searching for, he made his way over to park up beside it. A quick onceover in the rear view mirror assures Ichigo that the headgear he'd put on – a black bandana with his skull stitched in white, dead and centre – is in fact covering his bright ass, entirely too recognisable orange coloured tresses. As an extra precaution, he pulls his hood up too, before finally killing the engine and stepping out.

The Evo's owner, one Nnoitra Jiruga, eyed him up with a wicked grin. Nnoitra was an absolute beanpole of a man Ichigo had met in the very early stages of his newfound development, and, despite their crippling differences, the two became fast friends. Dressed in a simple white tracksuit, Nnoitra had shoulder length raven hair, long, spindly limbs, the kind of smile a serial killer would be proud of and some form of covering always concealing his left eye. Pushing himself off of the bonnet of the white beast, he beckoned Ichigo over with a crooked finger.

"Yo, Tensa," he greeted, presenting his fist.

Ichigo gave a toothy grin, bumping his fist against the proffered one. "S'up, Nnoi."

Not wanting anyone from this side of his life accidentally merging with his meek, weekday one, Ichigo shrouded himself in tendrils of mystery and ambiguity. Hence the vast majority knew him simply as 'Tensa', the ochre eyed speed demon with the vintage black Firebird and fiery temper to match. The less people knew about him, the less inclined they were to think that he wanted anything more than their superficiality.

"No Shin tonight, Jiruga?" Ichigo pondered aloud as they settled back against the sleek body of the Mitsubishi.

Nnoitra snorted, scratching languidly at his chin. "Aye, the fairy's bouncin' about here some place. Fuck if I know _where_, though."

Ichigo chuckled. Shinji Hirako was Nnoitra's on again, off again lover. With a blonde bob he claims to have had since preschool, a wide piano toothed grin not unlike the tall raven head and a somewhat bubbly disposition, Ichigo sometimes wondered how in the hell the two men made things work at all. Nnoitra was as headstrong as a fucking mule, and wildly possessive to boot, whereas Shinji tended to be more flamboyant and free spirited. But Ichigo had to give them props, because they sure as hell loved one another – even if neither would admit as much.

"Maybe he's off begging that hot guy with the body paints at the entrance to cover him in glitter," Ichigo teased, nudging the older man with his elbow. "Shit, if I wasn't so attached to my masculinity, I would be over there myself."

"Goldie knows better," Nnoitra growled, a look of malicious intent darkening his one visible, stormy orb. "Tha fuck're you doin' here anyway?" he asked, suddenly needing a change in topic before he went and sunk a bullet between some poor sods eyes. "Yer not down ta race tonight, are ya?"

Ichigo shook his head. "Naw, not here for that."

"Aah…" A knowing smirk slowly split the tall mans face as he draped an arm around his companion's shoulders. "Here ta scope out the totty on offer, ne?"

Ichigo shrugged his arm off, but grinned nonetheless. "You know it." He let his eyes briefly scour across the colourful assortment of bodies just begging for his attention. "Anything good out there?"

"Like ya even need ta ask," Nnoitra scoffed, crossing his long arms across his thin chest. "Ya know ya can have yer pick of any fuckin' thing with a pulse out there, so why don't _you_ tell _me_."

Ichigo stifled a loud bark of mocking laughter at the other's petulant tone, and settled for rolling his eyes instead. It was true, with a record of over fifty races and only one official loss since joining the big leagues just over two years ago, and having racked up more notches on his bedpost than the trunk of a gnarly tree, his reputation certainly proceeded him. As such, Ichigo could find himself being propositioned at any given time during the night, and by either sex. As it was now, he could see more than his fair share of hungry eyes roving over his figure, silently summoning, _pleading_, that he pick them to warm his body and share their bed tonight. It was pathetic really, but Ichigo didn't much care. As long as he got a hot, wet hole to get off in, he was happy.

Flowing burnt sienna suddenly caught his eye, and he smirked. "We have a winner," he declared, pushing himself away from his resting place.

Following his buddy's line of vision, Nnoitra could only sigh. "If ya keep pesterin' that girl, yer gonna get yer ass handed to ya. _Again_."

Ichigo ignored the words of 'advice', dismissing his companion with a curt wave as he picked his way through the crowds toward his target. Coming up behind the girl, he slipped his arms around a slim, curvy waist, grinning at the small gasp he elicited when he pulled the soft body tight against his chest.

"Orihime," he purred lowly into the girl's ear, his thumbs tracing over her exposed hipbones. "Fancy meeting you out here, all alone…"

Orihime Inoue was a magnificently crafted human being, with long silky hair and smoky grey orbs set in a beautifully symmetrical face. Her full pouting lips were painted in red lipstick, her slim line legs clothed in black skinny jeans and her frankly humongous chest struggling against the snug confines of her sleeveless white shirt. Ichigo could see that she was the focus of attention for many a wandering eye, and with good cause too. There wasn't a sinner alive that could deny just how delectably sexy she was.

"Um, h-hi Kuro–I mean, Tensa," she uttered shyly, her cheeks tinting the cutest shade of pink Ichigo had ever seen on a person.

Smiling, Ichigo brushed his lips over the smooth, flawless skin of her jaw. "How long have we known each other, Orihime? You shouldn't feel so…_nervous_, around me."

"S-Sorry, I don't mean to! It's just that I…I'm waiting on someone."

"Oh?" Ichigo hummed, nuzzling his face into her sweetly scented neck. "And who would that be?"

"Me."

Ichigo only had time enough for a quick curse before he found himself forced down onto his knees, his right arm locked at an awkward, and fucking _painful_, angle behind his back.

"The hell, Ichigo? I turn my back for _two seconds_, and you're already pawing all over Hime like some mangy mutt!"

"Dammit, Tats," Ichigo hissed, struggling fruitlessly to free himself. "Keep your damn voice down!"

He was met with more pressure on his arm, causing him to fall forward until he was supporting himself with his free arm. "Maybe when ya respect my relationship, and stop shamelessly hitting on my _girlfriend_, I'll respect your fucking privacy!"

When his assailant finally released him, Ichigo brought his right arm round to cradle in his left, scowling up at the earthy brown eyes glaring heatedly down on his fallen form. Tatsuki Arisawa, a short, tomboyish girl with spiky black hair and a downright lethal uppercut, was actually one of his oldest standing friends, and Orihime's lover of the past six years or so. Hence the drama any time Ichigo tried to put the moves on her. It was all harmless fun, of course – until Ichigo pushed it too far and ended up in a full-nelson, that is.

Picking himself up off the ground, Ichigo brushed down his jeans. "Oh don't get your dykey panties in a twist, Tats. I was only messin' around."

Tatsuki's eyes narrowed dangerously. "What the hell did you just call me!"

Orihime quickly leapt into action, forming a curvaceous barrier between her irate lover and her handsome high school friend. "Oh, Tensa, before I forget!" she started, hoping that a change in conversation would settle the two hot-blooded personalities quickly. "Cero was down earlier. He said if we saw you, to let you know he'd be at the club if you wanted to…um, 'catch up'…"

Ichigo nodded, figuring the further away from the volatile tomboy he was, the better condition his person would be in come morning. "Alright. Thanks Orihime. Guess I'll cop you guys later."

Tatsuki grunted irritably in response, snatching up Orihime's wrist and dragging her off, leaving the poor girl stuttering a hasty farewell over her shoulder before they lost themselves in the crowd. Shaking his head exasperatedly, Ichigo made his way back to his car, where an all too smug Nnoitra was waiting for him. Sadistic fucker probably enjoyed the spectacle more than was necessary.

Before he could even open his mouth to utter the loathed words of "I told ya so~", Ichigo held up his hand in a gesture of warning.

"Not one word, Jiruga."

Nnoitra laughed, thoroughly enjoying his companion's epic failure. "What tha fuck're ya poutin' for, Tens? S'not like there ain't more ready an' ripe fer the pickin'."

Ichigo unlocked his car door, before stopping to throw his lanky friend a purely carnal gaze over his shoulder. "Why bother with the hunt when you've got the pick of the pack geared up and ready to roll over at the snap of your fingers?"

Nnoitra furrowed his brows, scratching absentmindedly at the white bandana tied over his eye. "Ya mean tha lil' Snowflake?"

Ichigo merely smirked in response.

* * *

><p>He was doing it on purpose. He had to be. Somehow he knew that Ichigo had arrived, and was dancing like…<em>that<em> on bloody purpose.

It was now 10:04PM, and Ichigo had just arrived at the club he knew the pale skinned other would be at; Hollows. The place wasn't all that big, but then again it wasn't like its reputation was overly inviting. Packed from front to back with cokeheads and gangsters, and usually blaring energetic techno or heart thumping bass, anyone who didn't already frequent the place tended to – read, _wisely_ – walk on by.

Ichigo was standing on the edge of the dance floor, his ochre eyes wide and locked onto alabaster hips as they dipped and rolled to the beat of the song. Low riding leather hugged around lean legs, a sweat slicked, milky torso gleaming under the strobe lights as the other had forgone wearing his shirt, the white starched material tucked into the back of those sinfully tight pants. His black tribal tattoo was rolling and bunching with every move of his powerful back, making Ichigo lick his suddenly too dry lips.

Feeling somewhat stuffy, Ichigo pulled down his hood and rolled up his sleeves as he made his way over to the man, the magnetic pull far too strong for him to resist. Gliding his left hand over Shirosaki's shoulder, he let the other slowly trace the bold lines of his ink, following the curvature of his spine until his finger sank into silver tinted spikes.

_**Can you be my doctor?**__**  
><strong>__**Can you fix me up?**__**  
><strong>__**Can you wipe me down?**__**  
><strong>__**So I can make you give it up, give it up**__**  
><strong>__**Until you say my name…**_

"Mmm. Hiya, King," Shirosaki purred, turning gold-on-obsidian eyes on the man caressing him in all the right ways. "Yah took yer sweet ass time gettin' here. I've been losin' mah buzz waitin' fer yah…"

"Sorry, Shi," Ichigo hummed, nipping at an earring infested ear. "Don't worry, though. I'm here now. I promise I'll make you feel good."

_**And never take me out**__**  
><strong>__**Till you can taste the way**__**  
><strong>__**Do it again, and again till you say my name**__**  
><strong>__**And by the way**__**  
><strong>__**I'm so glad**__**  
><strong>__**I just wanna make you sweat…**_

Gripping marble smooth hips, Ichigo rolled his pelvis forward, letting the other _feel_ the extent of his rapidly mounting desire. He watched with hungry eyes as Shirosaki nibbled on the black hoop pierced through the right side of his bottom lip, idly noting that the other's golden pools were glassed over and hugely dilated.

"What're you on, Shiro?" he inquired, dipping his head to lave a wet trail down his conquests throat as his fingertips roamed over hard abdominal muscles.

Shirosaki shivered at the touch, humming his appreciation as his head lolled back onto his aibou's shoulder. He shrugged at the question, a hazy grin curving his lips. "Guess yah could say am ridin' a cocktail. Had a couple'a Es with tha boys down at tha lot, an' dropped some acid when'a got here. Then some dude gimme a hit of what I assume was snow in tha bogs in exchange fer a blowjob. Was fucked off mah head though, so cannae be sure."

Ichigo knew he should be appalled, that he should smack his so-called 'friend' so hard he was tripping for weeks, but instead he found himself snickering. If there was one thing he loved about the pale man currently wrapped up in his arms, it was his blasé attitude towards life, the fact that he just plain did not give a shit. Shirosaki could drop dead tomorrow and Ichigo knew it would be with a big fucking smile on his face, because at least he truly lived his life, just the way he wanted and with no regards to the consequences of his actions. If anything, Ichigo admired the younger male to the point of envy. He may be digging himself an early grave with such a reckless approach, but at least he was doing it with a skip in his stride and a jaunty tune in his heart.

"I'm pretty positive it was coke, though," Shirosaki continued, seizing Ichigo's wrists so that he could guide those wicked fingers to the obvious arousal straining against his restrictive clothing. "'Cause m'horny as fuck."

Ichigo moaned his approval, and, needing no further encouragement, spun the albino in his hold so that he could claim the other's lips in a searing kiss. Alabaster arms locked around his neck as he swept his tongue through Shirosaki's eagerly parted lips, his own arms wrapping around the man's waist as he crushed their bodies together in a fierce embrace.

_**Can you, can you get me up like I'm late for my first class**__**  
><strong>__**So I can give it to you rough like a first draft**__**  
><strong>__**Hold you like a paper plane**__**  
><strong>__**You know I got paper babe**__**  
><strong>__**Them dollar bills**__**  
><strong>__**Girl I'll make it rain…**_

By the time oxygen became a necessity, both men were panting harshly and clinging to one another as if their very lives depended on it. A feral smirk snaked across pale lips, showcasing pearly white teeth and abnormally sharp canines.

"Ne, King…wanna get outta here an' take this lil', _party_, back ta mine?"

Ichigo grinned darkly, his honey-ochre orbs flashing with pure, animalistic intent. "It's like you read my mind, Shi…."

_**I'm 'bout to take a swim**_

_**Let me dip my feet in and make you sweat**_

_**I wanna make you sweat…**_

* * *

><p>Shirosaki hiked his right leg up around Ichigo's waist as he was pressed firmly up against the outside of his apartment door, his lips instantly latching onto the peachy column of the older male's neck when Ichigo drew back to ask him for his keys.<p>

Swallowing down a heady groan at the pale man's impetuous eagerness, Ichigo realised he wasn't going to get an answer from the ravenous albino and thus dipped his hand into the ridiculously tight pockets of Shirosaki's pants to search from them himself. As soon as he procured them, he tugged hard on snowy locks, snapping the younger's head back so that he could dominate those kiss swollen lips once more.

Even though they both knew it was coming, the sudden collapse of their sturdy surface when the door swung open had the two men stumbling none too gracefully inside the threadbare abode, just barely recovering themselves before a nasty collision with the floor.

Ichigo reached out blindly behind himself and slammed the door shut, not caring in the slightest that it was probably violent enough to rattle the walls and wake the neighbours. As if Shirosaki's loud ass moaning out in the hallways wouldn't have done that already.

Breaking contact momentarily to pull his hoody off, Ichigo hastily picked up where he left off, mapping out the warm, moist confines of Shirosaki's mouth as he walked him backwards through the apartment.

With a myriad of potent narcotics and alcohol still buzzing supreme through his system, Shirosaki found his patience to be somewhat non-existent, and promptly ripped open the orange haired male's black shirt. A low growl was met for his actions, but when a hot mouth clamped down on his clavicle to give a harsh suck, he knew he needn't fear rebuke. Smirking, he reached up and yanked Ichigo's bandana off, throwing it away over his shoulder before threading his black varnished fingers through the soft, tangerine spikes he loved so much.

"Tha's much better," he purred, scratching his nails over the elder's scalp in a way he knew drove Ichigo wild.

Shrugging out of his torn shirt, Ichigo hurriedly guided them to Shirosaki's room at the end of the small hallway, the two cursing against each others mouths as they tripped over various unseen obstacles and slammed into a wall or two. Giving the alabaster man a rough shove when his leg hit the frame of the bed, Ichigo's lust darkened eyes watched as his conquests body bounced on the springy mattress, the black silk sheets bunching around his athletic, milky body in a beautifully stark contrast. Kicking off his boots and removing his socks, as well as Shirosaki's, Ichigo bowed over the younger's body, inching his way up the exposed flesh as he dipped his tongue into his navel before kissing, nipping and sucking up to his chest.

Shirosaki was in heaven, mewling and purring as that goddamn _sinful_ tongue traced every hard line and contour of his body. His breath caught in his throat, giving way to a strangled moan of pleasure as a wet mouth wrapped around the pebbled flesh of his left nipple, sharp teeth coming into play as they tugged teasingly on the looped piercing skewered through it.

"Ah, shit…_Ichigo_…"

Ichigo hummed his consent when pale fingers delved through his hair, yanking impatiently in a silent request to hurry the fuck up. Ichigo chuckled, gazing up into celestially hypnotic molten pools.

"S'matter, Shi?" he murmured coyly, lapping his tongue over his bobbing Adam's apple. "Starting to feel the pressure?"

As if to reinforce his statement, Ichigo crudely palmed at Shirosaki's prominent bulge, delighting in the low, throaty moan he ripped from the depths of his lungs.

"Fuck, aibou," Shirosaki whimpered, rolling his hips up into the teasing hand in search of more blinding friction. "Hurry up an' fuck me already, please! I need it…"

Chuckling, Ichigo grazed his teeth over Shirosaki's racing pulse point. "God, you're so fucking hot when you beg, Shiro… C'mon, do it some more…"

Shirosaki curled his lip in distaste. If anyone else had said that to him, they'd soon find themselves with a permanent stagger after he ripped their dick clean off. But with Ichigo, _only Ichigo_, he could…well, tolerate it. Especially when he reaped such rewards as he was now, finding himself wriggling his hips to help Ichigo as he tackled his pants, tugging them down his thighs as the orange haired male grumbled something about "stupidly tight leather" until he finally peeled them off completely.

"Going commando today, I see," Ichigo noted, licking his lips at the tempting sight of the other's erection standing tall and proud in a nest of crisp white curls.

Shirosaki smirked, sending his king a saucy wink. "Yah know I enjoy mah freedom, babe."

"Mm," Ichigo replied distractedly, busying himself with kissing a trail up a milky, inner thigh. He could smell the musky, heady scent of Shirosaki's arousal, and it was making his dick twitch with anticipation.

Breathing a sultry breath over the head of Shirosaki's cock, Ichigo shuddered pleasurably when the younger male moaned and blunt nails tracked over his scalp. Flicking his tongue out to gather the pearly beads of glistening precum, he could feel the searing coil in his abdomen twisting to the point of discomfort at the unique, saline taste.

"_Nghn_, holy hell…" Shirosaki whined, fisting a handful of soft orange tresses. "Quit bein' such a fuckin' tease an' jus' suck me off, dammit!"

"Well, since you asked so nice…"

Sucking three of his own fingers into his mouth, Ichigo quickly complied, engulfing the younger's arousal at the same time he pressed two fingers into the beckoning heat of that tight pucker.

Shirosaki hissed at the slight discomfort of the intrusive digits, but found he couldn't dwell on it for long as that wicked mouth descended over his throbbing cock. Masterfully taking him in inch by inch, Shirosaki could only screw his eyes shut and writhe under the older male's ministrations, breathy gasps and need groans bubbling in his chest when he was deep throated and swallowed around. Shit, Ichigo really was fucking _fantastic_ at giving head.

It didn't take long before Ichigo found himself having to restrain the albino's hips from practically raping his mouth, and figured from the deliciously wanton noises spilling from pale lips that Shirosaki was more than adequately distracted for him to add another finger. The mewling purrs were driving Ichigo nuts before long, and so, reaching down with his free hand, he unbuttoned his jeans and released his own engorged, neglected erection, humming in satisfaction as he gave himself a few harsh pulls.

Shirosaki's back arched up off the bed as the vibrations from Ichigo's moaning rocketed down his length and added to the already blistering inferno within his gut. Unable to stand it a second longer, he yanked hard on tangerine tresses, pulling Ichigo off of his slickened arousal with a lewd, wet sounding pop.

"I can't take it anymore, aibou…I gotta have yah in me, right fuckin' _now_…"

Ichigo gazed up into lust clouded golden orbs, his heart pounding mercilessly against his ribs at the oh so delectable sight of his flustered conquest. "Shit, whatever ya want, Shi. Got any lube handy?"

Shirosaki shook his head, throwing his arms around a corded neck to pull Ichigo close. He was positively _gagging_ for contact. "Don' need it, King, jus' take me raw."

Ichigo frowned. Had it been anybody else, a one night stand or random slut, he would've slammed straight into them at their request, right to the fucking hilt, and all without a second of hesitation. But Shirosaki was neither of those, and he really didn't want to hurt the man he'd grown fond enough of to consider a friend.

"Are you sure?" he asked, his voice gruff and laced with need, but at the same time betraying his hesitance to comply. "Damn, Shiro, it'll only take a sec to–"

A low, rumbling growl was the only notification Ichigo got before he found himself flat on his back, black tipped fingers digging into his pectorals as his world promptly exploded in a euphoric state of tight, wet heat.

Shirosaki hissed at the powerful invasion, his hips stilling as he straddled Ichigo and tried to grow accustomed to the girthy length stretching his channel beyond its capacity. Meanwhile, Ichigo was fighting his own battle of keeping himself still, only his was from bucking up into that wonderful, silky warmth applying just the right amount of pressure to his cock to make him insane with desire.

What seemed like an excruciating amount of time later, Ichigo growled out his relief when Shirosaki rolled his hips, his echoic voice strained as he told him to "get movin' already".

Thrusting up experimentally, Ichigo was rewarded with a shaky, but no less sexy moan, and that was all the stimulation he needed. Curling his hands around pale hips, he guided the alabaster male up, before dropping him back down, _hard_, both men groaning their appreciation as the tempo steadily increased and they rocked toward their completion.

It wasn't until Ichigo flipped their positions several minutes later, hooking an arm under the back of Shirosaki's knee as he gave a particularly brutal snap of his hips, that he finally nailed _that_ spot and the albino _screamed_.

"Oh fuck, _yes_ Ichi! Right fuckin' there!"

Smirking, Ichigo angled his every thrust to hit the younger's pleasure button, growling lowly in his chest as those velvety walls spasmed and clenched around him. Feeling his impending release coiling tighter and tighter in his abdomen, he sank his teeth into the smooth skin of Shirosaki's shoulder, sucking harshly on the flesh until he was certain he'd left a sizeable mark.

Cupping Ichigo's face, Shirosaki pulled him into a bruising kiss, their tongues twisting sensually as he rocked his hips down to meet the orange haired males blindingly accurate bucks. He felt his balls tightening and his toes curling as wave after delirious wave of ecstasy crashed over him, until one too many stabs at his prostate proved to be too much and he simply couldn't hold himself back any longer.

Snapping his head back, Shirosaki declared his climax to anyone who wished to hear with a throaty scream of pure bliss, his sweaty body curling tight around his aibou as he came hard and fast against their stomachs.

Ochre eyes surveyed the beautifully erotic sight of the albino coming undone, his breathing hitching as wet walls clamped down harshly on his length, seemingly determined to milk him dry. With a husky groan, Ichigo managed a few, sloppy parodies of his earlier performance before he too lost himself in his own nirvana, spilling his hot seed deep within the mewling Shirosaki.

Sated, and oh so incredibly fatigued, Ichigo gently retreated from the now thoroughly stretched canal, flopping down beside his alabaster companion with a long, contented sigh. Peering over at Shirosaki, Ichigo could only chuckle quietly to himself to find dark lashes fanned across his cheekbones and a steadily rising chest. Shirosaki was notoriously bad for passing out after sex, wasted or no; something Ichigo didn't know whether to be smugly proud of, or slightly disappointed in. Don't get him wrong, Shirosaki's stamina was surely top notch, but after the main conclusion he was out like a fucking light.

Shrugging at his own musings, Ichigo draped an arm over his eyes, humming pleasantly as the cool air whispered across his heated skin and sleeps inviting embrace tugged faintly at his subconscious. He found himself here a lot. Not necessarily _right_ here, wrapped up in Shirosaki's silken sheets, but in this situation – coming down from a glorious sex high and wishing that he felt something more than the glaring emptiness it wrought when it eventually seeped out of his system, leaving him feeling cold and oh so very alone.

It really didn't matter where he was or who he was with, it was always…

…_the same._

* * *

><p>When Shirosaki woke late the next morning, it was with a viciously pounding cranium and a slight case of short-term amnesia. It wasn't until he sat up, and hot lances of pain shot up from the base of his spine, that he suddenly remembered about his bed mate last night, his aibou.<p>

Languidly rubbing the sleep from his exotic eyes with the heel of his hand, he wasn't entirely surprised to glance over only to discover the other side of his double bed empty. Reaching over, he ran his palm over the vacant spot. _Cold_. Ichigo had obviously been gone a while.

Blowing out a loud sigh, he let himself fall back flat against the mattress again. He could still smell the orange haired male; on his sheets, in the air, on his skin. He knew he shouldn't feel disheartened that Ichigo had left him to wake up alone, it's not like he'd ever stayed before. But still, he always found himself wondering what it would be like to feel warm, peachy arms wrapped around him and holding him close, to open his eyes and see brilliant orange and sun-shiny ochre.

Scrubbing both hands over his face, Shirosaki shoved such thoughts into the dark recesses of his mind. There was no point in lusting after the unobtainable, after someone who would constantly be just out of reach. He would just have to content himself with the fact that he had Ichigo _at all_, which was a hell of a lot more than anyone else could claim to have.

Smirking to himself, Shirosaki shimmied over to Ichigo's side of the bed, pulling the covers back up over his shoulders as he sprawled out on his belly and drowned himself in the intoxicating scent of the orange haired male. He may not ever know what he meant to Ichigo, or where their little 'rendezvous' might take them in the future, but one thing was for damn certain…

…Ichigo was one helluva filthy, hot mess.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Aah. So, there yah's have it. Dear lord it turned out chuffing _looong_... But alas, tha's ta be expected of me, ne?**

**I can't take full credit fer this fic, I won't allow it. If Apple hadn't fed me the ideas like tha good lil' plot mistress she is, then I would have struggled immensely - so let us all give her her dues, yes? ^^ Yer finally dippin' yer toes into the Bleach world, mah sweet~**

**Anywho, I can only hope yah'll enjoyed what we collectively came up with, an' hopefully with mah delicious Apps on mah back, we can take this one far. Sorry ta the readers of mah other fics - lookin' at you, Faith~! - I will get back round to them jus' as soon as possible. I've already begun work on chpater eight of Unobtainable, so hopefully that'll be out soon. But fer now, please do enjoy what's on offer here if yah so desire~**

**Ciao fer now mah sweets,**

**Toringtino an' vivaciousRingo~**

**P.S. Fer those of yah who are curious, Shirosaki's tattoo is based off of the one Jim Carey has in "The Number 23" when he's all dark and strangely seductive. Awesome movie, if yah don't know already. So yesss, if intrigued, just look it up on Google images.**

**~x~**


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